


No Finer Boy in Town

by Ralkana



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: A Lump of Coul: A Phil Coulson Fan Work Exchange, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Candy Shop, Candy, Clint is not a SHIELD Agent, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-02 01:26:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2794700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ralkana/pseuds/Ralkana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While home for Christmas, Phil visits the town's new candy store, and finds the proprietor far more enticing than any of his wares.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Finer Boy in Town

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wintermute](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wintermute/gifts).



> Disclaimer ~ Marvel's toys, not mine. I'm just playing with them.
> 
> For the lovely Wintermute. Happy holidays, hon! I hope you enjoy it.
> 
> This story would not exist without AlyKat, who first texted me a photo of a Barton's Chocolate Bar, and then excitedly flailed with me as the bunny took shape. Thanks to Aly and also to Lapillus and LadyTian for reading this over for me and offering their help and suggestions.
> 
> Finally, the title is a line from Bow Wow Wow's _I Want Candy_.

 

The movie theater emptied quickly after the movie, and Phil grinned at the scathing looks his eleven-year-old godson and four-year-old goddaughter were giving those streaming up the aisles. They watched wide-eyed -- Phil included -- through both post-credit scenes before they gathered all their trash and headed out of the theater.

"Thanks, Uncle Phil, that was awesome!" Ben said, his eyes bright with excitement, nudging Sophia until she, too, said thank you.

"You're welcome," Phil said, catching Sophia's hand in his own. He had been happy to take them out to the latest superhero movie and give their parents -- his cousins -- the afternoon off.

They walked to the car Phil had borrowed from their dad, since it had Sophia's booster seat in it.

"Can we go to the candy store, Uncle Phil?" Sophia asked with a yawn.

Phil paused in the act of fastening her safety seat. "The candy store?"

"There's a new candy store on Main Street," Ben offered as he buckled his own seatbelt. "It has, like, everything. And it always smells like chocolate."

"Sure, I guess we can take a look," Phil said with a shrug.

"Can we have candy?" Sophia asked, turning her big blue eyes on him. He folded like a cheap card table. 

"One thing each, and you can't eat it until your parents say so, agreed?"

"Yeah!" Sophia cheered, and Ben grinned.

"Agreed!"

 

**~ ~ ~ ~ ~**

 

"Barton's Chocolates," Phil read off the bright, primary-colored neon sign above the door, reaching into the car to unbuckle Sophia. "How long has it been here?"

"About three months," Ben told him. "It's always busy, but it's not usually _this_ busy."

"It's Christmas," Phil reminded him. Hoisting Sophia over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and grinning as she shrieked with laughter, Phil waited until Ben held the door open for them.

"Thank you," he said as he entered, swinging Sophia around and settling her on his hip.

"Sure, Uncle Phil."

The store was bustling, filled with both adults and children, most of the latter fidgeting as they stared, wide-eyed at the displays.

Barton's Chocolates was decorated for the holiday, candy cane striping and gingerbread house decals everywhere, and cartoon snowmen smiling from the walls.

On the right was a large display case of candy apples, everything from old-fashioned caramel and cherry candy apples to apples that looked like they'd been rolled in the entire candy counter. Straight ahead were other barrels and display cases, showing a wide variety of gourmet chocolates and whimsical candies. To the left near the rear was a large display of retro, vintage, and traditional candies, and to the immediate left upon the entrance was a huge candy kitchen behind glass. Phil stopped short. In the kitchen, there was a man in a fitted black t-shirt and jeans covered by a black apron. He had a huge ball of taffy over a hook on one of the support pillars, and he was pulling it in the conventional manner, stretching it out and then folding it back in again, over and over and over. With every move, the impressive muscles in his arms bunched and flexed.

Phil's mouth felt dry. The man's face -- stern, nearly angry -- was focused on his work, his expression one of extreme concentration. His eyes were light, his hair a sandy blonde crop of messy spikes, but it was his large hands and amazing arms that kept drawing Phil's gaze.

"Down, Uncle Phil," Sophia demanded, and with a start, Phil realized he was staring. Flushed, he looked away to let her down so she could lead him over the colorful gummy candies that were drawing her attention. When he glanced back into the candy kitchen, the candy maker was watching him, his eyes glinting mischievously, the hint of a smile curling his lips. He pulled the taffy off the hook and dropped it onto a work counter, and Phil was _sure_ he was flexing more than was absolutely necessary as he rolled the candy into a long, narrow log. Was that a wink?

Embarrassment rushed through Phil, and he turned away, focusing on the kids. A moment's quick inattention, he knew, and they'd disappear into the crowd. Sophia hadn't wandered far -- her nose was practically pressed to the case holding the candy apples, and Phil winced at the realization that she was definitely leaving fingerprints. Most likely sticky ones.

Ben was wandering through the barrels of brightly colored saltwater taffy, and Phil smiled as Ben made faces at some of the more outlandish flavors.

Phil was content to let them wander. They were being quiet -- and well-behaved, he thought with a frown as a small child of indeterminate age and sex, bundled up in a snowsuit and bobble hat, ran shrieking through the shop. The kid bumped into a display rack, knocking half a dozen packages of gummy… things to the floor. The woman who seemed to be responsible for the kid simply picked the child up and walked out, leaving the mess on the floor. With a sigh, Phil bent to pick the candy up.

"We're looking for part time help, if you're interested?" a laughing voice said beside him, and Phil stood up quickly, barely reining in the impulse to lash out in surprise. He glanced up to find the man who'd been pulling taffy in the candy kitchen standing beside him.

Up close, his smile was a deadly weapon, and Phil found himself blinking wordlessly, caught up in the man's eyes -- a beautiful mix of too many colors to name. Phil abruptly realized he was staring again, and tore his gaze away, feeling his cheeks flush when he realized that it only focused his gaze on the man's trim waist and… further south.

 _You're a goddamned spy, Phillip Coulson!_ , he berated himself. _More James Bond, less Maxwell Smart!_

He conjured up a smile, handing over the packages as he said, "I just didn't want them to get stepped on."

"I appreciate it," the man said warmly as he took the candy. His fingers brushed Phil's hand, and Phil shook off the ridiculous urge to shiver at the touch. Then, the man stuck his hand out. "Clint Barton."

"Phil Coulson," Phil said as he returned the handshake. Clint's hand was large and warm in his, intriguing callouses rough against Phil's own, and Phil didn't think those came from pulling taffy. Then, Clint's full name registered. "Then this is your shop."

Clint glanced around the busy shop, fondness and pride blooming on his features. "Yeah," he said softly, a hint of disbelief in his voice. "Guess it is."

Phil was completely charmed.

"Seems to be doing well," Phil said, and Clint shrugged, ducking his head.

"So far, so good," Clint allowed.

"Look!" Ben shouted, running up and thrusting a small bag of candy in Phil's face. Phil took the bag to get a closer look.

The candies were tiny and round but flat, concentric circles of blue and red with a miniscule white star in the center. Teeny sugar versions of Captain America's shield.

"Hey, those are pretty great," Phil said with a laugh.

"Those are my favorites too," Clint told Ben with a grin. "You like Cap?"

"He's the best!" Ben said earnestly.

"He's definitely pretty cool," Clint agreed. "If you want, maybe one day when we're not so busy, you can come back and I'll show you how I make those."

"Really?" Ben asked breathlessly, his eyes huge. "That would be so cool!"

Clint shrugged. "Sure. As long as it's okay with your dad," he added, with a not-so-casual glance at Phil.

"Uncle Phil's not my dad," Ben told him. "He's just my godfather. He's actually my cousin. I just call him my uncle 'cause he's so old."

"Hey," Phil protested as Clint stifled a laugh.

"I see," Clint told Ben gravely, his eyes dancing with humor.

"Clint!" called a gorgeous redhead working behind the counter, and Jesus, was everyone who worked in Clint's shop stunning? "We could use your help up here!"

Clint nodded at her, and then turned back to Phil and Ben. "It was great to meet you guys," he said, with what was definitely a flirty grin. "But duty calls."

He winked at Phil -- again -- and then turned and headed for the counter. Phil swallowed roughly -- Clint's jeans fit just as snugly as his t-shirt, and they did amazing things for his ass.

Belatedly, Phil realized he was staring, yet again. Embarrassed by how completely obvious and conspicuous he was being, he forced himself to look away, only to find himself locking eyes with the redhead behind the counter, whose nametag said _Natasha_. She glanced from Clint to Phil and back, her lips quirked in a knowing smile, and Phil felt himself flushing once more.

"Can I get this, Uncle Phil?" Ben asked, brandishing the bag of tiny sugar shields. "Please?"

"Sure, if that's what you want," Phil said, happy to focus on something other than his own ridiculousness. "Let's see what your sister's found."

 

**~ ~ ~ ~ ~**

 

Closing the back door of his cousin Theresa's house with a sigh of relief, Phil found himself alone on the porch. He wrapped his coat more tightly around himself, watching his breath puff in the cold night air.

Christmas with his extended family was always wonderful, and it was especially important to him now that both his parents were gone, but for a man used to living alone, the constant noise and activity could be very tiring after a while. Even though it was the 26th, the house was still full -- most of the out-of-towners had arranged flights out on the 27th, including Phil -- and he needed a moment or two by himself.

He shivered in the chilly night, thankful the weather had cleared. It had left pristine piles of snow that twinkled in the Christmas lights, turning Theresa's neighborhood into even more of a scene from a postcard.

The happy shriek of a child followed by an explosion of adult laughter came through the door, and Phil sighed. Not quite ready to go back in yet, he started to walk.

Theresa and her family lived a few short streets away from the absurdly quaint Main Street that ran the length of her small town, and Phil found himself walking in that direction, gloved hands shoved deep into his pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold.

When he realized that his wandering wasn't exactly aimless, Phil paused, laughing at himself. 

"He's not even there, you idiot," he told himself mockingly. "It's late, and he's probably somewhere warm and comfortable, not freezing his ass off. Unlike some people."

But he could see in the distance that the windows of Clint's shop were aglow, and he couldn't quite make himself turn back, even though the shop was probably empty.

The shop itself _was_ deserted, the lights on, but dimmed, but Phil could see Clint in the candy kitchen, working with what looked like melted chocolate. He worked quickly but efficiently, handsome face set in lines of intense concentration, and Phil found he could not look away.

He realized he was standing in the dark, staring into the shop windows looking like the worst kind of stalker, and he swore at himself. Before he could turn back towards Theresa's, however, Clint glanced up and saw him.

His eyes lit up, a happy smile blooming across his face, and Phil couldn't help but smile in return. Clint beckoned him forward, wiping his hands on a cloth as he moved to unlock the front door.

"I'm sorry," Phil said as Clint opened the door. "You're closed, and you're clearly busy. I was… just out for a walk."

"No, come on in," Clint protested, and Phil could not be imagining the eager tone in his voice, could he? "I was just working on some new recipes."

He glanced down to where he was gripping the cloth in his strong fingers, and then he looked back up at Phil through golden lashes. "Would you like a taste?"

Phil's mouth went dry, a spark of lust curling low in his belly. He swallowed, licking his lips before he could speak.

"If you're offering," he replied, and the way Clint's throat worked at the sound of Phil's voice made him less embarrassed about how low and hungry the words had come out.

He followed Clint into the candy kitchen, stripping off his leather gloves and hat and shoving them into his coat pockets, absently smoothing his hair down once his hands were free. The air was laden with the scents of warm chocolate, caramelized sugar, and spices, and Phil took a deep breath.

"Smells good in here," he said, and Clint nodded, smiling at him as he picked up a small chocolate that sat resting on a cooling rack.

"Here, tell me what you think," he said, offering the chocolate to Phil, his voice and eyes brimming with anticipation.

Phil lifted a hand to take the chocolate from Clint's fingers, changing his mind at the last minute. He wrapped his fingers gently around Clint's wrist instead, registering Clint's sharply indrawn breath as he lowered his head and nipped the chocolate from Clint's fingers, his tongue briefly brushing warm skin.

Flavors exploded on his tongue. Rich, dark chocolate, sweet and slightly bitter molasses, and the buttery crunch of praline all blended in a perfect, heavenly bite. Phil's eyes fluttered shut, and he hummed happily in satisfaction.

When he opened his eyes, his gut clenched at the hunger in Clint's dark eyes as he stared at Phil.

"That one's a keeper," Phil murmured with a smile.

Clint swallowed roughly at Phil's words, his eyes locked on Phil's mouth.

"You, uh, you have some chocolate," Clint said, his voice a low rasp that arrowed straight through Phil. "Right… right there."

He lifted the hand that Phil still held loosely, rubbing gently at the corner of Phil's mouth with his thumb. Phil swallowed a moan, fingers tightening as he held Clint's hand there, flicking his tongue out to lick the chocolate off Clint's skin.

"Fuck," Clint muttered, a shiver visibly wracking him. "You're killing me here. I, uh, I have a room. Upstairs. Do you want to come up?"

"Yes," Phil said quickly, shoving down every rational part of him that was screaming that this was a bad idea. Clint was gorgeous, amazingly talented, and clearly just as attracted to him as he was to Clint, and Phil was not going to let this opportunity pass him by. "I would love to come up."

 

**~ ~ ~ ~ ~**

 

Sweaty, sated, and sleepy, Phil lay curled in Clint's impressively muscled arms, both of them laboring to get their breath back.

Clint stretched with a satisfied hum, and Phil eyed him, gaze lingering on Clint's tousled hair and toned chest and abs. Clint saw what had drawn his attention and stretched more, a smug smile curling his lips. Phil rolled his eyes and Clint laughed, settling back down and tugging at Phil until Phil lay against his shoulder once more.

Years -- decades -- of training trickled back in, and Phil found himself staring around Clint's small studio apartment. It was sparse, but clean, a bachelor's space, but a wide variety of high-quality equipment crowded the counters of the small kitchen. Most intriguingly, a flat black case and a quiver of purple fletched arrows rested on the floor by the door. The only art on the walls was a framed archery target with a single hole directly in the bullseye, and a small print of an archer at full draw, silhouetted by a brilliant sunset.

"Archery is an unusual hobby," Phil observed.

Clint hummed contemplatively. "Less a hobby, and more a foolproof and absolutely necessary form of stress-relief."

Phil stifled a sigh. Rather than scratching an itch and being done with it, every minute he spent with Clint only intrigued him further. He wanted to know more about him, and he was treading into dangerous territory here. 

Clint rolled to his side, propping his chin on Phil's shoulder. "So, you know I'm a candyman, but what do you do?"

"I'm an information analyst," Phil said smoothly. "For the government."

Clint stared at him for a moment, those incredible eyes boring straight into Phil -- and practically through him. Phil gazed back, an easy half-smile on his lips. He used the opportunity to try and identify all the different colors in Clint's eyes.

Clint glanced from Phil's face to his shoulder, where a scar was clearly all that remained of a bullet wound, to his abdomen, which showed the shiny, puckered flesh of a fairly recent knife wound. He looked back into Phil's face while picking up Phil's hand and cradling it in both of his, fingertips stroking over Phil's gun callouses.

"That must be some damn aggressive data you're analyzing," he said flatly.

"Numbers can be brutal," Phil agreed with a smile.

Before Clint could reply, Phil's phone beeped. He reluctantly pulled himself out of Clint's arms to reach for his coat where it was slung over the armchair by the bed.

It was a text from Theresa. _You okay, Phil? You disappeared._

He glanced at the time displayed at the top of the screen, eyes widening. He'd been gone for hours. _Went for a walk_ , he tapped out after a moment. _Met up with a friend, and lost track of the time catching up. I'll be back soon._

_You're a big boy. ;) Take your time._

Phil snorted and tossed his phone back on top of his coat. He turned back to Clint, disappointed to see him sitting up and pulling his shirt over his head.

"I should go," Phil said reluctantly. "My family will worry."

Clint dropped his eyes and nodded, and Phil winced, realizing how that sounded.

"My cousins, I mean. That's, uh, it. For my family. I'm staying with them. For Christmas."

"Oh," Clint said, and then after a moment, he added, "That must be nice. To have family like that to spend the holidays with."

"It is," Phil answered awkwardly. "I -- I'm sorry. I should have made it clear earlier that I was just visiting and that I don't live here."

"It's okay," Clint reassured him. "I didn't figure I could be that lucky." His wry smile was tinged with a hint of sadness, and Phil's stomach fluttered nervously at the confirmation that his growing interest in something more than just this one night was returned.

"But hey," Clint added after a moment. "This was… yeah. Good. So, feel free to look me up when you're back in town."

Phil nodded, and the moment stretched out awkwardly. Part of him wanted to curl back up in Clint's amazing arms and protest that he didn't have to leave just yet, but the moment was gone, and he knew it. He unenthusiastically reached for his pants.

Saying good night was stilted and uncomfortable, and the walk back to Theresa's house was cold, and miserable, and lonely.

 

**~ ~ ~ ~ ~**

 

Phil found himself driving down Main Street the following day, even though the Hub -- where he'd arranged to catch a Quinjet back to base -- lay in the opposite direction.

"This is a bad idea," he muttered, even as he pulled into the tiny parking lot reserved for Barton's Chocolates and the other shops on the block.

Big, bright signs in the shop exclaiming the virtues of the After Christmas sale explained the steady stream of clientele -- though of course it wasn't anywhere near the pre-Christmas rush. Clint stood behind the counter, wrapping up a box of chocolates as he made friendly conversation with the customer he was helping. The cheerful flow of words faltered as he glanced up and caught sight of Phil, but only for a moment.

Embarrassed and still not sure quite what the hell he was going here, Phil glanced away, looking around the shop. His eyes fell on a display of brightly wrapped truffle assortments, and he couldn't help but remember the moment he and Clint had shared the night before in the candy kitchen. Heat rushed through him, and he decided that he needed to get out of here before he made an even bigger fool of himself, but he couldn't just leave empty handed.

Grabbing a box of chocolates at random, he headed for the register.

"Hi, Phil," Clint said with a small smile as he reached for the box Phil was holding out.

"Hi. Um, they're for my boss. I forgot a gift for him," Phil said, forcing himself not to mumble and to look Clint in the eye. He was a goddamned adult, they'd had amazing sex, and they'd parted on good terms. Just because he couldn't help but want more, there was no reason to act like a lovesick teenager.

"Well, I hope he enjoys them," Clint said, and Phil nodded.

"I'm sure he will," he answered, taking back the box of candy, his change, and his receipt.

"Have a safe flight home," Clint said softly, and Phil smiled.

"Thank you. It was nice… I mean…" Phil sighed. "Thank you."

They stared at each other for a moment, and then Clint blew out his breath in frustration.

"Fuck it," he muttered. He hit a button on the register, and blank receipt paper advanced off of the roll. Tearing it off, he grabbed a pen and quickly jotted something down before handing the slip of paper to Phil.

Phil stared down at the phone number scrawled under Clint's name, smiling at the T crossed with a hasty sketch of an arrow.

"In case you get bored of analyzing gun- and knife-wielding numbers," Clint said uneasily. "Or whatever. Send me a text. Or, y'know, gimme a call."

When Phil didn't answer, Clint shrugged, and looked down, rubbing at a fingerprint on the glass display case. "I won't be offended if you toss it out with your receipt."

Phil took both his receipt and Clint's number and carefully tucked them into the inner pocket of his suit jacket.

"Thank you," he said. "I guess I'll talk to you soon, then."

The memory of Clint's last hopeful, happy smile stayed with him the whole flight home.

 

**~ ~ ~ ~ ~**

 

The next week for Phil involved mind numbing stacks of paperwork, spectacularly incompetent junior agents, and an R&D disaster that led to flippers instead of arms for half the staff on duty that day.

At the end of it, he was exhausted. Curling up in a pair of soft sleep pants and his worn Rangers shirt, under the Captain America throw Sophia and Ben had given him for Christmas, with a cup of hot cocoa, felt like heaven. As he savored the rich hot chocolate, he stared at his rarely used personal cell phone where it sat on the coffee table.

The jagged edge of a torn slip of paper peeked out from under it, both resting exactly where he'd put them when he'd returned from his Christmas visit.

On impulse, he grabbed both up and fired off a quick text.

_Hi, Clint. It's Phil. Let me know when a good time for a phone call would be. Or we can just text, if you prefer._

It rang before he could put it down.

"Hello?"

"Hey! Hi! Um, I hope that meant this was a good time for you, 'cause I can call back if it's not."

Phil smiled, instantly feeling the tension in his shoulders relax. "Hi, Clint. Now is a great time. How are you?"

"I'm good! So, hey, your godson came in -- he's a great kid -- and we spent like two hours talking comics and making a mess, it was great…"

Relaxing back into the couch cushions, Phil closed his eyes and let the sound of Clint's voice wash over him.

 

**~ ~ ~ ~ ~**

 

Their conversations -- talk, text, and email -- quickly became the highlights of Phil's weeks. They communicated often, and what Phil was most grateful for was that Clint never pushed when Phil changed the subject or evaded a question. He never questioned why Phil occasionally had to cut their talks short, and he never asked where Phil had been when he went out of contact for a few days -- or weeks.

He seemed content to let Phil keep his secrets, just as Phil was happy to let Clint keep his.

But they learned about each other in small snippets and snatches of conversation at a time. Halting texts where they discovered they'd both lost parents early -- though Phil had only lost his father as child, and his heart had ached with his own grief and for Clint when he'd learned how early Clint had been orphaned.

He found out about the brother Clint never spoke to anymore, and about their brief stint in the circus of all places, before CPS had removed -- and separated them. He learned about Gail, the foster mother who'd loved baking and candy making, who'd allowed Clint to help her in the kitchen and had awakened a passion and nurtured the talent that had given him a livelihood.

In return, he told Clint of his rebellious youth, and how he'd run away every other month, had been picked up for vandalism and stealing cars, and about his brief stint in military school. He'd confessed how even now it pained him to know how much grief he'd put his mother through, and how he hadn't understood that until after her death, when he could no longer make things right.

He'd talked about Nick, telling Clint the stories he was able to about the friend he'd made just after Basic, who'd both saved his life and changed it, giving him direction, and a purpose.

Phil couldn't have imagined, even a few months before, opening up like this to _Nick_ , let alone anyone else, but there was something about Clint's quiet words, his soft infectious laugh, and his sly teasing that drew words out of him that he'd never intended to say.

As an added bonus, he was sleeping better than he had in years. Maybe ever.

 _So, hey,_ Clint texted one night. _I'm shitty at this stuff, but Nat says she'll set Skype up for me, if you're interested in seeing this kinda fucked up face again._

Phil nearly dropped his phone in his haste to agree -- and to reassure Clint that his face was _not_ fucked up in any way, shape, or form.

He signed on a couple nights later to see Nat's smirking face staring back at him. She moved away, and Clint sat down instead, grinning.

Clint flushed scarlet when Natasha loudly said, as she walked away, "You get come on the keyboard, I'm not cleaning it up."

"Jesus, Nat!" Clint hissed, and Phil laughed, even as he felt his own cheeks heat.

Clint smiled goofily at the sound. "Hi."

"Hi," Phil said, and stomped down on any ridiculous urges to touch Clint's face on the screen. "It's good to see you."

"You too," Clint said, grinning so wide it looked like it might hurt. "So, you'll never guess what Peter did to my cotton candy machine yesterday…"

 

**~ ~ ~ ~ ~**

 

The mission had been shitty -- rogue agents always pissed Phil off -- Phil hadn't had real coffee in days, hadn't slept in nearly thirty six hours, and he hadn't talked to Clint in nearly three weeks. Junior agents were avoiding his gaze, and the only reason he hadn't put his fist into the Quinjet's bulkhead was the amount of paperwork it would cause -- especially knowing that Nick would make him do it all, broken hand or not.

His answers grew increasingly terse during his one-on-one debrief with Nick, and the man's eyebrow climbed higher and higher.

"Is that all?" he asked finally, and Nick folded his hands on the desk in front of him, impassively studying him. Phil sighed. "Come on, Nick. I'm tired. I need a drink."

"What you need," Nick intoned gravely, "Is to get laid."

Phil barely schooled his features from falling into a sullen pout. The only person he wanted was states away. "Very funny."

"You know that Monday is July 4th."

"I can read a calendar, yes."

"And you're aware that you have so much vacation time piled up that you're giving HR stress ulcers."

"Keeps them active. What is this about?"

Nick sighed dramatically. "And to think, I've always considered you one of my brightest agents. What this is _about_ , Cheese, is that if you were to go down to the 'jet hanger right now, you could probably thumb a ride to any SHIELD base you might like to go to. Say, for instance, the Hub. You could spend the next three days with your candyman, and return on Tuesday morning, after he's thoroughly fucked this frankly very tiring pissy mood completely out of you."

Phil blinked at him, assailed by sense memories of Clint's hands on his skin and the sound of Clint's breathy moans.

Nick laughed in his face. "Dismissed, asshole. Bring me back some truffles."

"Jerk," Phil muttered as he all but scrambled out of Fury's office.

"I love you too, Cheese," floated out after him, and he ignored the puzzled glances exchanged by Fury's two admins.

Within an hour, he was packed and on his way to the Hub, strapped in beside two other agents heading home for the holiday weekend.

Phil had had all of his nervous tics trained out of him in Basic, but he could not stop his knee from bouncing endlessly at the thought of actually seeing Clint -- not a picture sent by text message, or over a computer screen, but actually having him close enough to touch. Excitement kept him going through the flight, the check-in at the Hub, and renting a civilian rental car, since he wasn't on SHIELD business.

By the time he recognized the buildings of Main Street four hours later, he was that special blend of elated and exhausted that meant he really shouldn't be driving. He parked, staggered out of the car, leaving his go bag in the trunk, and hurried toward Barton's Chocolates.

It was early enough in the day that the shop was still closed, but he could see Natasha and Clint in the kitchen, talking as they settled large trays of chocolates in the walk-in to set. Two teenage boys were pulling taffy and dipping candy apples, laughing as they worked, and even though Phil didn't recognize them, he knew who they were from all of Clint's stories -- Billy and Teddy, Clint's summer help.

Phil felt like pressing his face and hands against the door and just watching, taking his fill of Clint happy and relaxed in his element, surrounded by the people he cared about. But the allure was too strong and he lifted a hand to rap on the locked glass door.

They all turned, and Phil watched as Clint's eyes went wide with shock, watched as his lips formed Phil's name, and that -- just that -- sent a shiver of anticipation through him.

Then Clint was hurrying to unlock the door and throw it open, and then he was wrapping those amazing arms tightly around Phil. Phil wrapped his arms around Clint in return, buried his nose in Clint's neck, and just breathed him in.

"Phil," Clint laughed, shock coloring his voice, his breath hot against Phil's skin. "What are you _doing_ here?!"

"Surprise?" Phil murmured.

"Hello, Phil," Natasha said from beside where they were making a scene on the sidewalk, and Phil forced himself to pull away from Clint -- just a little.

"Hello, Natasha."

She was watching them with a smirk, but there was too much true happiness in her eyes for the smirk to be genuine.

"Go," she told Clint. "Go see how many orgasms you can wring out of each other, as fast as you can, because if we get busy, I'm calling your ass back down here, interstate booty call be damned."

Clint flushed but didn't reply, just taking Phil by the hand and pulling him through the shop and toward the stairs in the back.

 

**~ ~ ~ ~ ~**

 

Clint's apartment door had barely closed behind them before Clint was shoving Phil against the wall and taking his mouth in a hungry kiss.

Phil moaned, mouth opening under Clint's, reveling in the fierce kiss and the tight hold Clint had on his arms. He knew at least twenty ways to break it, but the very idea that Clint could pin him like this, that he'd have to _try_ to get free, made his head spin. He arched closer to the heat of Clint's body, groaning as he felt the hard length of Clint's cock through his jeans.

He pulled out of the kiss to gasp for air, choking on it as Clint latched onto the sensitive skin of his jaw, sucking biting kisses into it.

"Fuck!" Phil growled, hands coming up to tangle in Clint's hair and hold him there. His knees felt weak, like the weight of Clint's body pinning him to the wall was the only thing holding him up. "Clint, please! Jesus, the bed is _right there!_ "

"Too far," Clint mumbled into his skin, and Phil laughed, gathering his strength to shove Clint away and toward the bed.

Clint whined in dismay, stumbling back and flopping on his back in the rumpled sheets.

He lay there, limbs sprawled, watching with a hungry smirk as Phil stripped to his boxers in record time, tossing his clothes in a haphazard pile on the chair by the bed. Clint's humor faded into a hungry groan as Phil climbed onto the bed on top of him, nuzzling at Clint's neck before catching his mouth in a wet, filthy kiss. Clint moaned into his mouth, arching up into Phil's body, his hands skating over the bare skin of Phil's back, callouses scraping with little sparks of heat in the best of ways.

Phil sucked kisses into the skin below Clint's ear, taking in deep lungfuls of his scent. He smelled of cinnamon and vanilla and the sandalwood scented body wash Phil had learned he favored.

"You smell fantastic," he said, smiling as he felt the rumble of Clint's laugh.

"You _feel_ fantastic," Clint countered. "I've been dreaming of getting my hands on you for six months!"

"Me?" Phil laughed, running his hands over the flexing muscles of Clint's shoulders and arms. "Fuck, look at _you!_ " he groaned, and then he couldn't help but kiss him again.

They kissed endlessly, thrusting lazily against each other, hands roaming as they learned and relearned each other's body and what made the other gasp and sigh. 

Need spiraled tighter and tighter within Phil until his hips were arching into the cradle of Clint's thighs on their own. He reached down and unsnapped Clint's jeans, swearing as Clint _wriggled_ beneath him to kick them off. Clint slid his hands into Phil's boxers, palming his ass in a firm grip before pushing the fabric down around Phil's thighs. Phil kicked them off, and then their bare cocks were sliding against each other, hard and aching and already slick with precome.

"Fuck," Clint groaned, laughing at the sensation, and Phil could only nod dazedly in agreement.

He rested his head against Clint's shoulder, whimpering as Clint wrapped his hand around both of them, jerking in a slow, steady rhythm.

Fitting his mouth to Clint's in a sloppy, careless kiss, Phil swallowed Clint's own quiet whines as the pleasure built and built.

"Please!" Phil gasped. "Fuck, Clint, please!"

"Yeah," Clint breathed, adding a wicked twist that wrenched a startled cry from Phil. "Yeah, come on."

Trembling unstoppably as his hips pistoned helplessly against Clint, Phil threw back his head, coming with a long, wordless cry. Just as his orgasm broke over him, he heard Clint's own sharp gasp and shivery, breathless moan.

Completely wrung out, Phil sprawled heavily atop Clint's still-quivering form, shuffling clumsily to the side as soon as he got enough breath back, so that he wouldn't crush him. He gracelessly threw his arm over Clint's chest and cuddled closer, smiling when Clint pressed an uncoordinated kiss to Phil's temple.

"Welcome back," Clint mumbled. Phil laughed weakly.

"I feel thoroughly welcomed," he said, and Clint snickered.

They lay in sticky, sated silence for a moment, and then Clint trailed his fingers down Phil's back and said, "Remember what Nat said."

Phil snorted, nearly half-asleep already. "I'm gonna need at least four hours of sleep and a good meal if you expect a repeat performance."

Reaching clumsily toward the floor for his shirt, Clint hummed as he made a half-hearted effort to clean them both up. "A nap sounds good. Okay, nap, and then I'm gonna make you the best French toast you've ever tasted."

Phil opened one eye. "Yeah?"

The corner of Clint's mouth curved up in a tired smile. "What, you think the only thing I learned in culinary school was making candy?"

"Bring it on, then," Phil said, and then he yawned. "Nap first, though."

Clint wriggled closer, pressing his lips to Phil's shoulder. "So glad you're here," he whispered.

"M'too," Phil mumbled, and then dropped into sleep like a stone.

 

**~ ~ ~ ~ ~**

 

Natasha never did make good on her threat, but Phil and Clint did their best to live up to their end of the deal anyway. They spent nearly the entire three days in Clint's tiny apartment, having as much sex as possible, getting in each other's way in the kitchen and bathroom, stealing bites off each other's plates and reading off each other's tablets. It was amazing, and every time Phil thought of getting back in the car and driving away from Clint, his heart ached.

Monday night came all too soon.

They stood in the little parking lot, beside Phil's rented car, staring sadly at each other.

"Fuck it," Clint sighed, wrapping his arms around Phil. Phil tried not to cling.

"I'll be back at Christmas," he said, and Clint nodded without letting him go. Thinking of all the vacation time he had just sitting there, Phil added, "And I'll try to come back sooner. For a weekend, maybe."

Clint stopped back, swiping at his nose with the back of his hand. "Yeah?"

"I can't promise anything," Phil warned. "But I'll try."

"No, I know." Clint cleared his throat. "Go. You'll miss your flight. Let me know when you get home, okay?"

Phil nodded, and then, before he could convince himself not to, he opened the door, tossed his bag in, and got in.

He glanced in the rearview mirror as he pulled away. Clint was standing there, hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans, watching him go.

 

**~ ~ ~ ~ ~**

 

The last half of the year was a shitshow, even by SHIELD standards, and it was difficult enough to find time to _call_ Clint, let alone to get away for a weekend. Their brief conversations and endless email threads were the only thing that kept Phil going through the weeks -- that, and the knowledge that he'd be there with Clint for Christmas.

So when Nick knocked on his office door on December 22nd, looking grim, Phil's heart sank.

"No," he said flatly, glaring at Nick. "Whatever it is, no."

"Cheese -- "

"Dammit, Nick!"

"Phil," Nick said, and Phil sighed. Nick only used his real name in private when shit was serious. He glanced sadly at his go bag, packed and resting on the floor by his office door.

"You know I wouldn't ask if I didn't need you," Nick told him.

"I know. What's the mission?"

"I need you in Kiev. May, Morse, and Woo have missed three check-ins. And you know May best. If we're going to get them back, I need you on the ground."

Phil's heart clenched. Melinda May was one of his best friends, and the finest agent he'd ever known, and Bobbi Morse and Jimmy Woo were in the highest echelons of SHIELD's best. If all three of them had dropped out of contact, it meant something had gone seriously wrong.

"Briefing?" he asked, already mentally putting his team together.

"My office, ten minutes."

Phil nodded, and Nick slipped back out. Sighing, Phil pulled his personal phone out of his bag.

Despite the early hour, Clint answered on the second ring. "Hey!" he said happily. "Are you on your way to the airport already?"

Phil bit back another sigh. "Clint."

"Oh," Clint said after a moment, his voice subdued. "You're not coming, are you?"

Phil leaned against his desk, closing his eyes and rubbing at the bridge of his nose with his free hand. "I'm sorry. Something major has come up, and -- "

"No, hey. Don't be sorry, okay? You wouldn't cancel on me if it weren't something big. You go where you're needed, and I'll be here when you get back."

Phil clenched his fists uselessly. The worst of it was, he knew Clint understood. Clint might not know exactly what it was that Phil did, but he knew it was important on more than just a personal scale. But that didn't mean he wasn't disappointed, and Phil _hated_ disappointing him.

"I'm sorry," he said again, helpless to stop himself. "Listen, I don't know when I'll be back, but when I am, I'm taking a week and coming straight there, okay? It'll be great -- probably even better, because you won't be as busy."

He heard the pleading tone that was creeping into his voice, and he made himself stop, pursing his lips together so nothing else could spill out.

"Sounds great," Clint said, his voice full of forced cheer.

"I've got to go."

"Phil, hey, listen, take care of yourself. Stay safe. I don't care how long it takes, just… just come back to me, okay?"

Phil closed his suddenly stinging eyes. "Yeah," he said roughly, because he couldn't promise anything. "Okay. Gotta go. Bye, Clint. Merry Christmas."

"Bye, Phil. Merry Christmas to you too."

Shoving down the urge to throw his phone against the wall, Phil tucked it back into his bag and then took a deep breath, refocusing his mind on his mission.

 

**~ ~ ~ ~ ~**

 

Phil's mission was basically over before it began.

By the time Phil's team had briefed, geared up, and flown halfway across the ocean, May and her team had reinitiated contact with SHIELD.

They'd escaped from the AIM base they'd stumbled across, dragging half a dozen scientists with them for interrogation before blowing the base halfway to hell and back.

The 'jets landed, picked up the new passengers, refuelled, and turned right back around.

After a ridiculously short debrief on his part, Phil wearily drove home and let himself into his cold, dark apartment just before December 23rd became Christmas Eve.

Glancing around, he sighed. Not even a single decoration, since he'd planned to spend Christmas with Clint.

He showered and climbed tiredly into bed before picking up his phone.

"Hello?" Clint practically shouted, and Phil winced as loud music poured over the line. "Phil? Hang on, okay?"

The noise was suddenly muffled, and Phil smiled, imagining Clint in the tiny, cluttered office he used to keep Barton's Chocolates afloat. He realized he'd called in the middle of the party Clint had planned for all his current and former employees.

"I'm home," Phil told him listlessly. "Things went far better than we had any right to expect. I just wanted to let you know."

"That's great news," Clint said happily, and Phil smiled, some of his dark mood dissipating just a little.

"Go back to your party," Phil told him. "I'll be there on the 26th, okay? I couldn't get a flight out any earlier."

There were no flights scheduled from HQ to the Hub on the 24th or 25th -- Phil had checked -- and he wasn't about to try navigating the nightmare of commercial airlines at Christmas.

"I guess I could rent a car," he mused, "And see about driving -- "

"No, Phil, don't, that's crazy. You sound wrecked. Get some rest, and I'll see you in a couple of days. We'll just have our Christmas a day or two late, that's all. No big. I'm glad you're home."

"Me too. Merry Christmas, Clint. Have fun at your party. Say hi to everyone for me."

"I will. Merry Christmas to you too, and I'll see you soon."

Phil tossed his phone on the bedside table. Exhausted as he was, loneliness and frustration had him tossing and turning and punching his pillow for a few hours before sleep finally claimed him.

 

**~ ~ ~ ~ ~**

 

Phil's Christmas Eve was miserable.

It was the first Christmas he'd spent alone in over a decade and a half -- even before he'd met Clint, he'd always made it home to celebrate with his cousins and the rest of his family.

He'd planned to be gone, so he had no fresh food in the house, and he had no desire to go out and fight the Christmas Eve crowds just to find some. So he ate oatmeal for breakfast, and canned soup for lunch.

Nick had invited him over for dinner, but he'd declined, knowing he was in no mood for company that wasn't Clint, and not wanting to ruin Nick's holiday as well. He was well aware that he was sulking -- like a child -- but he couldn't seem to help himself.

Maybe if he'd been able to talk to Clint, that might have improved his mood, but Clint was strangely out of contact. Phil's _Merry Christmas Eve_ text had been answered hours later, and when he sent another text, asking if Clint wanted to Skype, since they couldn't be together, Clint had sent back, _Sorry, but I can't. I kind of made plans?_

"Of course you did," Phil sighed, trying not to feel resentful. "Just because I'm stuck here on Christmas, that doesn't mean you have to sit at home by yourself."

So Phil microwaved a turkey pot pie, left A Christmas Story on TV to play seven times in a row, and paged mindlessly through the stack of comics he hadn't read yet.

He glanced up to see the clock on the wall turn from 12:04 to 12:05.

"Merry fucking Christmas to me," he snapped, tossing the comic book onto the coffee table with the rest. Untangling himself from the Cap throw he'd wrapped himself in, he folded it and dropped it back on the couch as he stood.

He was halfway down the hall and to bed when there was a knock on his front door. He paused, and it came again.

"What the hell?"

Easing into the kitchen, he flipped through the camera feeds on the security monitor until he reached the camera over the front door, blinking in shock at the sight of Clint standing there in coat, gloves, and scarf, a purple knit beanie jammed on his head.

Clint glanced behind him, rubbing his gloved hands over his arms before knocking again, and that spurred Phil into movement.

"How did you _get_ here?" he exclaimed as he yanked open the door.

Clint's look of relief melted into a smug smile. "What, you're the only one that can make surprise visits? I thought maybe you could use some Christmas cheer!"

He reached down to pick up his bag in one hand and the huge, brightly wrapped box of Barton's Chocolates in the other, yelping as Phil grabbed him by the collar of his coat and pulled him inside, kicking the door shut.

"You crazy idiot," Phil laughed, brushing snow off his shoulders. "Did you drive all the way here by yourself?"

"Hell, no," Clint retorted. "Nat drove with me. She just dropped me off -- she's staying with her friend Sam. I'm really glad you're here, Phil, I'd'a been kinda fucked if you weren't!"

"Where else would I be?" Phil said, a little dizzy by the complete 180 his Christmas Eve had just taken. Ignoring Clint's outerwear and the things he carried, he wrapped his arms around Clint and pressed a kiss to his cold lips.

"Merry Christmas, Phil," Clint said happily into the kiss, "But, um, you're squishing the chocolates."

Phil grabbed him by the lapels and looked him directly in the eye. "At this point in time, I can safely say that I do not give a fuck about the chocolates."

Clint's mock-scandalized gasp shuddered into a groan as Phil shoved him against the wall and kissed the hell out of him.

 

**~ ~ ~ ~ ~**

 

Phil startled awake in his dark bedroom with a curse as his work phone rang.

"Mmm, don' answer it," Clint mumbled.

"I have to," Phil said bitterly.

Clint sighed. "I know."

"Coulson," he said as he answered without looking at the display. There was only one person it could be.

"Merry Christmas, Cheese!"

Phil sighed, flopping back onto the bed. Clint cuddled up next to him, covering them both with the blanket.

"What do you want, Nick? Clint's here, and we had a lot of sex last night. I'm very tired. And kinda sore."

Clint snorted into his shoulder, and Phil twitched at the ticklish sensation.

"Jesus fuck, Phil, I did _not_ need to know that!"

"That's what you get for calling me at the asscrack of dawn on Christmas morning. Why are you calling me, again?"

"Atherton's retiring at the end of the year."

Phil held the phone away from his face just so he could glare at it. "Please tell me you did not call me before six in the morning on Christmas Day to remind me that Stephen Atherton is retiring in a week."

"That leaves me without a ranking agent stationed at the Hub, and as you know, that's against regulations. Consider yourself promoted and transferred, as of January 1st."

Phil blinked, completely stunned.

"Merry Christmas, asshole. Save me some goddamn truffles," Nick said, and hung up.

"Phil?" Clint asked after a moment, having heard both halves of the conversation, but not completely understanding it.

Phil reached over to set his phone on the bedside table, and then turned on his side to stare at Clint.

Clint blinked sleepily at him, hair in complete disarray, love bites littered across his skin.

The Hub was an hour away from Clint. Maybe less. He could conceivably wake up to this sight every weekend. Maybe… maybe even every morning. He laughed in disbelief.

Clint frowned. "Phil?"

"Do you think you might be okay with sleeping with me more than twice a year?" Phil asked him, consideringly. "Say, maybe once a week? If not more?"

Clint's eyes widened. "What, seriously?"

"Mmm. Apparently I've been transferred. And promoted."

Clint gaped at him for a moment and then stretched lazily. "I guess I could if I _had_ to," he said eventually, laughing when Phil's pillow hit him square in the face.

Shoving it away, he rolled on top of Phil, grinning madly.

"Best Christmas ever," he murmured before kissing Phil, and Phil was inclined to agree.

**END**


End file.
